Current mood:	huh
Current music:	Combichrist - This Shit Will Fuck You Up

Title: Inside
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairings/Characters: convict/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1,364
Warnings: angst, hard non-con
Summary: Some men are born sinners. Other men adjust to fit the system, and a few men can't.
Notes: I will not shit you. I got irate-sick of Shakespeare, drank four beers, and woke up with three pages of prison!rape.

Supernatural and all related properties © and TM 2007 Warner Bros. Entertainment, Inc. © and TM The CW Network 2007, and are used without permission.

Inside
by calicokat




Sam sucked in air as his roommate(Ha!) humped against his asscheeks. His fingernails scraped against the sheets and he bit his lip until he drew blood, unwilling to make a sound. Dean, across the hall, couldn't -- wouldn't -- know. The inmate hooked his finger in Sam's orange scrubs and yanked them down with his underwear over his tight, bare ass. Sam knew what was coming, but the dick butting up against his entrance choked up barely-swallowed bile in his throat. He spread his legs, as far as he was able. He imagined the damage tearing up his ass if he clenched his legs together. The man, inches taller and forty pounds heavier, thrust inside him, tearing skin, brutalizing the tight ring of Sam's anus. Sam bit his pillow. (Dean couldn't, wouldn't know.)

Sam felt his body slide open, that thick, hard dick shoving its way inside him. The blood he bled offered insufficient lubrication -- a long, dry fuck, and every thrust agony, Sam pressed into the mattress, every thrust an excruciating humiliation. Sam felt a tear slip over his cheek. He remembered Madison. Sarah. Jess. The most recent women in his life and the best valued. He remembered anything that wasn't this callous intrusion, some fourth time con rutting himself into an orgasm.

In the morning, his ass would be sore as hell, and it didn't matter. Dean would guilt himself over it months longer than it was due, and Sam expected this rough treatment -- long haired and fair faced. Sam didn't fit in as well as Dean -- prettier, maybe, but born to sin. No chance Dean would take it in the ass, or drop the soap, while he roomed here. Dean came out on top, no matter how stupid an error he stumbled into, or where he plied his trade.

The rough dick plowed into Sam relentlessly, and Sam groaned with pain, and imagined he was anywhere else, ass cheeks split wide. Sam had his pride. His anger. His vitriol. Sam could have killed this man: a strike to the throat, a kick to the groin, and then choked him to death, watching his eyes roll back and his life eke out of him. But then he'd be convicted beyond a doubt. Then he'd spend the rest of his life waiting for the chair, or the needle.

Sam guessed he could incapacitate this man. He thought of a hundred ways. But none safe, and none silent. His body made room for this stranger's pleasure, because Dean would feel so, so guilty. Dean would drag himself through the mud. And this? Was just a reality of prison, where women were housed in separate blocks. Where men grew desperate and horny, until their own hands didn't satisfy, and they waited impatiently for something to spill their seed inside.

Sam was that. Had that. An asshole, available for raping. As the stranger jerked inside his body, biting the back of his neck until it bruised, Sam internalized that. Committed it to memory. He deserved no less. He imagined he would do worse, if he turned, corrupted by demonic forces. Sam imagined he would fuck this man raw and devour his flesh. Those fantasies came to him unbidden, sometimes, in the darkness of night, and now, while he was used slattern as a receptacle for some stranger's indifferent cum.

Sam imagined Dean, feet across the hall, sleeping soundly until morning, working his prison duties, no idea his little brother had been up all night, whoring himself out because he valued Dean's peace of mind over his ass and whatever diseases were spilled in it. The con jerked against him in three rough thrusts and Sam guessed he came, because he went still, and slid out slowly, that bleeding orifice closing in on itself and Sam thanking Christ the worst was over. At least for tonight.

The ten foot tall man slapped/patted Sam's asscheek and crawled off of him and up onto the top bunk with a creak of metal. Sam lay drooling, teeth clenched on his pillow, and imagining a hundred years of dropping the soap, long hair a sign of femininity, of an eventual, receptive longing for some thick cock to fill his ass. Another tear slipped over his cheek, and he knew, in the morning, he had to be Sam. No guilt. No recrimination. Just Sam, the submissive and sometimes snarky brother, quick to follow Dean's lead and guilt ridden only over the part he'd yet to play in the Yellow Eyed Demon's perverted schemes.

His ass ached raw, wet with blood. But Sam had the determination to walk straight despite that injury. He had the power in him to deceive his often-distracted brother. Sam knew that, as well as he catalogued his every injury, torn ass and bruises from where that con dug his fingers into his shoulders, his teeth into his neck.

Sam wanted, more than anything, to be out of here. Back shotgun in his brother's Impala, sleeping off the pain. He was ready, jumping, to call Deacon and slip that watch word that signaled the necessity of release. Release Sam wouldn't find sexually until the bleeding, aching orifice of his ass had healed itself and forgotten the heavy man sleeping on the bunk above.

Two more tears rolled over Sam's cheeks. He wasn't cut out for this life. Not like Dean, prettier, oh yeah, but inaccessible by his cocky calm, his readiness with a phrase or a fist to put his attackers off him. Sam only knew physical submission. No lawyer tactics would suffice against men like these, who'd stood before judges six or seven times since they were skinny sixteen year olds nicking smokes from the local quickie-mart.

Sam closed his eyes and kicked his scrubs off his sore legs, pulled his underwear over his butt, feeling pornographically naked without it, and bled through the fabric into his sheets. He pretended. He pretended some homosexual had made love to his ass, some hymen burst and the blood on his comforters was intimate. He pretended anyone who gave a shit about him had left his cum inside him. Dean. Even Bobby or Pastor Jim. It didn't matter, as long as they weren't a foot larger than he was and so impossibly huge that he felt like he'd been rent in two.

What else did Sam expect from prison? He'd never expected to fit in, from the moment the local police officers forced him onto his knees. From the moment he'd entered the prison, cons calling out that his butt was theirs, and Dean suggesting lewdly that Sam could have been but wasn't up for trade. Sam imagined the loneliness that drove one man to bury himself in another, while he clenched his eyes against the pain and tried to remind himself all the times he'd gone to sleep with worse injuries.

In the morning he'd discard his underwear, pull his pants up and do his job. The faster they killed whatever bastard ghost had set up shop inside the prison, the faster he could escape the hell that forced him into sexual service.

Fucked. Well and thoroughly fucked.

Sam's roommate started to snore and Sam entertained the fantasy of strangling him as a monster, Sam raised to violence and halfway to unafraid of the consequences (just another murder rap, a tally mark to catch him up to Dean). He reached down to stroke his flaccid cock, soft between his legs and vulnerable, that organ wondering why someone had had so much sex with Sam's body and neglected it so utterly. Sam caressed it some minutes, although it never became aroused, imagining some kind of consent to the rape of his body, the jerks on his hair, the plunder of his lips.

The sting would linger, Sam knew, embed itself so deep he'd probably need a few years of counseling if he hadn’t needed counseling already for his unnatural lifestyle and his unnatural dependency on his brother's respect and approval. (Ever since Jess died...) Sam lulled himself into slumber, and when he woke up he felt refreshed, although his ass was as sore as any part of his body he'd ever remembered injuring. When he saw Dean, again, he smiled, relieved, and fell back routinely into the patterns so long practiced, the pain hidden inside him left to be examined some other day. Some other time.